The Healing Poison
by Lisa Smithers
Summary: Sequel to "Freak" - How does the aftermath of the explosion affect John and Sherlock? And who is this group Moriarty was referencing? Why does he want Sherlock to save them? And Moriarty has a daughter? What's the deal with that? Hurt/Comfort/Friendship/Adventure/Mystery
1. Flashing Lights

**A/N: Alright, so here's the long awaited sequel! Okay, maybe not so long awaited, but... I'm pretty sure that was one of the longest 'not so long's of your life. Or at least it was for me.**

* * *

White and blue flashing lights alerted John Watson that help had come.

The injured were now being put on stretchers and then into the back of the ambulance to be carried to hospital.

John looked down at Sherlock, who was still kneeling by the dead body of Moriarty, staring vacantly at him. John read the signs of his being in his mind palace

A police car pulled up closer to them than the rest, and a form, John recognized it as Lestrade, came running up to the both of them.

"I heard what happened." He said. "Are the both of you alright?"

John looked at Lestrade for a moment, then looked down at Moriarty, bidding Lestrade to follow his gaze.

Lestrade was speechless for a moment, before turning his gaze to Sherlock.

"Can he hear us?" Lestrade asked.

John looked down at Sherlock.

"No, he's in his mind palace."

"How's he doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Physically, bad, but I'm not sure how bad." John sighed. "He's got a concussion and I'd almost guarantee that the bruises and burns on his back, chest, and torso are quite extensive. He must have turned his pain receptors off."

"What about... not physically?" Lestrade asked, hesitantly.

John looked up at Lestrade.

"I have no idea." John said. "He's... he's Sherlock. Who knows what's going on in his mind?"

Lestrade nodded grimly.

"I've got to go help dig the survivors out." Lestrade said. "You'll tell me how he's doing once you know, won't you?"

"Of course." John confirmed.

Lestrade went off to help, and John was left with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, mate, we need to get you to the ambulance." John said, kneeling down beside him. "We need to see how badly you're hurt."

* * *

 _Lights flashing..._

 _Why?_

 _Hmm... I knew this before..._

 _Memory fog..._

 _Concussion then._

 _Hmm... Should probably turn pain receptors back on to make sure there aren't any side effects or something._

 _Done._

 _So tired..._

 _Need to sleep._

"Sherlock-"

 _What's this? Someone is speaking to him again?_

 _Yes, more specifically, John is speaking to him._

"Come on, help me out, you need to get up-"

Sherlock felt someone trying to pull him up into standing position.

 _Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!_

 _Pain! Stop!_

* * *

John momentarily stopped, surprised by the first reaction from Sherlock to the outside world in a worryingly long time.

Sherlock's breath hitched, and became faster, and more labored.

"S-stop- please!" Sherlock said, now gasping in pain with every breath that went through him.

"Why?! What's wrong, Sherlock?" John said. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Hurts-"

* * *

Everything hurt, every single nerve in his body was sending messages riddled with agonizing pain to his already uncooperative mind.

 _Where is it? Where is the pain coming from?_ Sherlock thought desperately.

 _Pain coming from... from... from ribs. Broken?_

 _Probably._

 _From the back too. Why from the back?_

 _Back was facing the explosion. Would have been badly burned..._

Sherlock's thought process was interrupted by another burst of pain, him then becoming aware of yet another source of it.

He felt John lowering him down.

* * *

John was startled. He had seen Sherlock in pain before, but... Sherlock never begged. He never said 'please'. That's just not who he was.

 _It has to be bad then..._

John lowered Sherlock back onto the ground, to where he was laying down entirely.

John quickly straightened back up.

"Medic!" he yelled, as he waved his arms, beckoning an EMT over.

Sherlock swallowed audibly before taking several fast breaths, displaying just how much the pain was getting to him.

"Just hold on, Sherlock." John said. "It's going to be alright."

 _The messes you get yourself into..._ John thought. _You skipped my turn, you know. You've already been stabbed, it was my turn to get hurt._

Two medics came over with a stretcher, and with John's help, got Sherlock situated on it.

They took him off to hospital in the ambulance, John riding beside Sherlock the whole time.

 _This happens all too often._ John thought. _Please stop, Sherlock. You're scaring me._

* * *

He knew the explosion had happened before he knew his brother had been in it.

Mycroft had ordered for extra medics and supplies to be sent to the site of the explosion, but called for a helicopter to take him as soon as the news of his brother's involvement reached him.

The helicopter was there in record time, due to Mycroft's insistence to throw caution to the wind when it came to how fast the pilot would fly.

They landed fairly far away, as the pilot wouldn't have been able to see where he was landing through the smoke if he had landed any closer.

Mycroft wasted no time, and was down and heading, _running,_ towards the area of destruction.

He gazed through the people, and seeing no Sherlock, he asked the nearest person he recognized. Lestrade.

"Where is he?"

"At hospital." Lestrade answer. "John went with him."

"Is he alright?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know. I haven't heard any more than that." Lestrade said. "You didn't hear he was going to hospital?"

"No, I left as soon as I heard what happened." Mycroft said. "Do you know which hospital?"

"St. Bart's, I think." Lestrade answered. "That's where they're sending them now. Most other hospitals are full."

"Thank you." Mycroft said. "I'll be on my way."

* * *

The amount of relief hearing the beep of his brother's heart rate monitor actually surprised the elder Holmes himself.

And that is no simple feat.

Sherlock was in bad shape, burns and bruising dotting his body. In the explosion, the stab wound Sherlock had previously obtained reopened internally, causing a some bleeding. They would have to do a small surgery to straighten things up in there, but Sherlock would probably be alright.

 _Caring is not an advantage._ Mycroft reminded himself. _Sherlock, he's safe, he's alive, he- he'll recover. He always does._

* * *

 ** _A/N: So, first chapter of the sequel, completed. I'm going to do a bit of a time jump next, so just be prepared for that. Reviews please!_**


	2. Not a Game Anymore

Sherlock had been released from hospital a few days ago, after spending a miserable week in it.

He had been in significant amount of pain after the surgery, still was, but he refused any sort of pain killer stronger than paracetamol.

This meant he was left in the flat, unable to find any position that didn't cause some amount of pain.

It was strange though, he didn't complain as John had expected him to. It seemed Sherlock would always complain about the little stuff, then be entirely silent about the big stuff. The fact that Sherlock _chose_ to sit still, told John that he was hurting more than he was letting on. John wished he knew of a way to stop it.

"How you doing?" John asked, as he set a cuppa on the side table near Sherlock's chair. John sat down in his own, and sipped a cuppa as well.

"Better." Sherlock said, his voice lower than usual, and void of its usual enthusiasm. He slowly took a sip of the hot, sweet tea. The warming of his throat as the tea slid down it was one of the only comfortable sensations he had felt since the explosion. Everything else hurt.

"First time you've spoken in a while now." John commented.

"Hasn't been much to speak about." Sherlock answered.

John stared at him.

"We got blown up, found out there's another group of geniuses after us, **_and_** found out that Moriarty has a _daughter._ How can you say that there's not much to speak about?"

Sherlock looked up at John.

"I've been thinking about that..." Sherlock said, placing his gaze on the wall behind John, letting his eyes become unfocused.

"You have?" John asked.

"What else could possibly run in my mind after all this?"

"I don't know," John said, "You've just been... really quiet lately, withdrawn. I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said. "Much better than I was."

"Humour me then," John said. "How bad is the pain?"

"Tolerable." Sherlock said. "Hurts more when I move, obviously."

"And you head?"

"Improving quickly." Sherlock said. "Not so difficult to think any more."

"Good." John said. "You should be back to normal soon. Just another few weeks."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

There was a moment of silence before John spoke again.

"There's something bothering you."

"There is indeed." Sherlock drummed his fingers on his cup.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock was silent a moment, John could tell he was debating his words.

"You've seen what damage people like me can do on the world." Sherlock said.

John nodded.

"That was only two of us." Sherlock continued. "Two of us alone were responsible for the deaths of over 2,000 people."

"But there were only 57 killed in the explosion...?" John said.

"I've done the math, John." Sherlock said. "I- I added what happened while I was gone as well."

"Oh." John said no more.

"2,000 divided by 2 is 1,000." Sherlock said. "1,000 deaths on my head. Now there's a group of people like me. Say there's only 4 people in the group. 1,000 times 4, is 4,000."

"Sherlock..." John said, but could really find nothing to say.

"It's not a game anymore." Sherlock said. "Not with so many dying."

* * *

A familiar voice hissed in Sherlock's head, the words taken from a memory.

 _"That's what people do."_

* * *

 **A/N: Wow. That's creepy to think about. Sorry for the short chapter, I needed this conversation to happen while Sherlock was still healing up. The next will be longer. Reviews please!**


	3. Unleashed

It took awhile, but Sherlock healed, and life went on more or less normally. Sherlock took on cases, and John was always there behind him. They solved them just as quickly as always.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John." A statement, not a question.

"Huh?" John said in confusion, "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Don't I?" Sherlock said passively.

"Tell me then." John said. "Tell me what I was thinking."

"You were about to remind me that the meeting he warned us about is close at hand." Sherlock said. "Just a few days now."

"Well- yes- how did you know?" John stuttered.

"I haven't been able to think about much else."

Sherlock stood and opened a black case. He ran his fingers over the soft, smooth wood of his violin.

"So what's the game plan?" John asked.

"We go." Sherlock said, holding the instrument up to his neck. "We find out what we're up against."

"You're sure?" John asked.

"I'm sure." Sherlock said, breathing out as he slowly lowered his bow to the strings.

"So how are we going to get in there?" John asked.

"I think the front door would be most appropriate," Sherlock answered.

* * *

 _"The meeting will go on as scheduled." She confirmed. "The Raven's Ring will not tolerate such a disruption." There was a short pause as she listened to the deep voice on the end of the phone._

 _"We think James may have given him our position and timing, but we're not sure as to what Holmes will do with information." She said. "He won't go to the police, but we should still proceed with caution."_

 _Another short pause as the man spoke to her._

 _"No, don't alert Vanessa. This is too close to her." She said._

 _The man spoke again, and she glanced up at the clock._

 _"I need to go soon." She said. "If Holmes shows up, we'll make the necessary decisions then, as a group."_

* * *

"Are you insane!?"

"Probably."

"Sherlock, we can't just go waltzing in there!" John said. "We need a plan! We need a way to hide, a way to sneak in! It's the only rational thing to do!"

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded, as though John had followed his train of thought the entire time.

John gave him the look that said, 'Stop looking like I know what you're talking about. I don't.'

"The last thing they're expecting is for us to just walk on in." Sherlock said. "Besides, I just want to talk this time."

"You just want to talk?" John asked. "You find out there is this horrible group of people, a group of terrorists even more powerful than Moriarty, and you just want to have a chat?"

Sherlock turned sharply to John.

"You will not say another word about them until we know more." Sherlock said, his voice taking a low and dangerous tone. "Just because they were working for Moriarty doesn't mean that they're terrorists too."

"Great! Now you're defending them!?" John asked. "Gosh, I really know how to choose them, don't I? I chose to befriend the man that was beating a corpse with a riding crop the first time I met him, I chose the man that held me 'hostage' and points a gun at my head, and I chose the man that has about as much sensitivity as a dead rat! I chose the man who is not only unaffected by the deaths of other people, but _**excited**_ about them. I chose the man that shows no respect, or affection to any one at all. I chose the man who doesn't know how to care. After an explosion that killed over seventy five people, and injured hundreds , my best _friend_ went after and wanted to save the man who had caused it all, instead of saving the innocents! Now you're protecting the very people who were probably in on it as well, and who will likely do something similar in the future!"

John took a moment, recovering his breath, and studying Sherlock's reaction.

 _I've just made a huge mistake._ This thought was in his mind for only a moment before it was pushed away by rage. Rage had it's own thought.

 _He deserved it._

It was silent for a moment, then Sherlock spoke.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is not to change sides?" Sherlock asked, his voice kept carefully under check, but still breaking towards the end. "Do you have any idea how hard it is not to let emotion take over? Can you comprehend the struggle I have not to become Moriarty? Of course not. You can't. You're not me."

Emotion began to show on Sherlock's face, unable to hide it any longer.

"Do you know what it's like to be on the side of the angels, but not one of them? Do you know what it's like to try your best every single day at something you know you'll never be able to do? Do you know how hard it is to simply keep trying?" Sherlock wasn't even bothering to keep his voice low now. For the first time since John had known him, Sherlock had raised his voice to him.

"Do you want to know the reason I pretend I don't care? Do you want to know the reason that I act as I do?" Sherlock said. "It's to prevent myself from becoming the very thing that I fear most. You have PTSD. You know what it's like to fear your mind, to wake up with nightmares every time you sleep. To be on the look out for signs of danger at all times, never able to relax and calm down. Try having that from the day you were born. You get tired after chasing after me on a case, having your mind move constantly during that time? Try having a brain that won't turn off. Try having a mind that processes every detail around you whether you want it to or not. Why don't you go back to school, and have people go out of their way to avoid you, and you know they're doing it."

Sherlock stopped to take a breath then kept going.

"You don't know me, John. You think you do, you think you know all my strengths, my flaws, but you don't. You don't know one thing about me, and try as I may to explain how I work to you, you'll never understand because it's simply not possible." Sherlock said. "Close your eyes."

John hesitated a moment, but then did as Sherlock ordered.

"Imagine that you're back at... high school." Sherlock said. "Now imagine that people hate others that like to wear jumpers and drink tea. Imagine that they despise people who want to be doctors. Imagine that for all your life, you've been hated, avoided, and ignored, simply for being who you are."

Sherlock's expression displayed years of pent up frustration, bitterness, sadness, loneliness, and desperation.

"Now imagine this. Imagine that after school, you go home to a family that entirely ignores you. Your parents both working in the government, and busy enough that they had time only to prepare your brother for the same job they have." Sherlock said. "Imagine that you were left with a nanny that despises as well as fears you because of a deduction that you did when you were 7 years old. Imagine that you ran away for a week, and when you came back, you realized that no one ever knew you were gone."

There were tears in Sherlock's eyes now, one of them shinning in the light as it dripped down his cheek.

"I do have emotions, John. I'm proving it to you now." Sherlock said. "I do have guilt, I do have regrets, and I do have empathy. But it's not like a tap. If you turn your outward responses off, it's very, very hard to turn them back on again. Imagine that you felt everything just as strong as everyone else, but didn't have the words to describe what you were feeling, nor did you have anyone who cared enough to listen. Imagine that you were alone for most of your life, then you're suddenly pulled into the world of adults, and expected to be able to interact normally."

Sherlock stared John in the eyes with an intensity he had never seen before.

"If for the first time, you found out that there were other people who thought like you, who could understand you, and possibly even accept you for who you are instead of trying to change you, how would you feel?"

"Excited, I guess." John mumbled.

"Now imagine that someone you had known for a long time, someone that you cared about, despite trying not to, called them horrible people and terrorists. They might as well have been accusing you of the same thing, and you'd have no way to deny it. Because it's true. Sometimes I wish I was a hero, John, but other times... I just want to watch the world burn." Sherlock said. "This is my life, John. If you're not willing to accept that, than you can leave right now."

John stood in stunned silence.

It took several minutes for the weight of Sherlock's words to fall on his mind.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. "So, so sorry..."


	4. You Choose Now

"Sorry won't cut it this time."

It took John a moment to get over his shock.

"You will make a choice, and you will make it now. No more pushing it back, no more delays." Sherlock said.

John nodded mutely, prepared for the question.

"Are you with me," Sherlock said, "or not?"

John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes.

"Always."

Sherlock breathed out, closing his eyes slowly. He brought his hands up in the ever so familiar position.

He seemed relieved, John noticed.

"Did-" John hesitated, "Did you think I would leave?"

Sherlock sighed.

"After the chaos I've caused, the lives that have been lost," He said, "it wouldn't have surprised me..."

Sherlock's eyes averted from John, and stretched to the window at his right.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

"Why?" Sherlock said, resignedly.

"Just do it."

Sherlock's gaze shifted up to meet John's.

"Don't you dare, for one second think that I would go." John said, his voice low and serious. "Call it blind loyalty, but there is not a single thing beyond cold-blooded _murder_ that would make me leave your side."

John's hard, piercing stare never wavered.

"Whether you like it or not, I'm not going anywhere." John said. "I am here, and here to stay. So whatever in your mind is making you debate that, delete it. All of it. Until there is no doubt in your mind that I would ever, _ever_ give you up so easily."

"One question." Sherlock said. "Then I delete the doubt."

"Alright then."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you stay?" Sherlock repeated.

"Because you're my friend, Sherlock, my best friend, and I need you just as much as you need me."

Sherlock rolled that in his mind a moment then nodded.

"Alright."

"So... We're clear then?" John asked, a bit awkwardly.

"Crystal."

The tension in the room from the previous conversation was still strong, despite the end having occurred already. John couldn't quite figure out what was supposed to happen, and Sherlock looked just as lost as he was.

"Thanks- I mean- Thank you." Sherlock stumbled over his words.

"For what?"

"For not leaving."

* * *

The building loomed above the both of them, casting a shadow on the ground.

"So what's the plan?"

"We walk in." Sherlock said.

"And after that?"

"We improvise." Sherlock said, gazing up at the old flat they were to soon approach.

"Improvise?"

"Of course, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock said, glancing back down to John.

"Well, yes, it's just- you generally have more of a plan." John said.

"You can only have a plan if you have data." Sherlock said. "I have no more data than the location and time that the meeting is to take place. Beyond that, we know nothing. We'll just have to play it by ear."

Sherlock felt his pocket, confirming the location of his mobile phone.

"You've got your mobile?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep."

"And your gun?"

"I don't know why you bother asking anymore." John said. "I never leave the flat without it."

A smile spread up Sherlock's face, and he glanced down and away a bit to hide it.

 _I'm so glad you exist._

"What?" John asked. "Did I say something stupid?"

"No, John." Sherlock said. "Not at all."

"What is it then?"

* * *

John wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Sherlock whisper something to himself that sounded an awful lot like _'sentiment'_ , which was quickly followed with a much more audible "Nothing important."

* * *

"Ready?" John asked.

"Ready."

Sherlock pushed open the door revealing the first room of the flat.

It was dark.

Whispers could be heard, and Sherlock knew that the group was just around the corner of the room.

He walked in, standing tall, with coat trailing behind him. His eyes were cold, John noticed, but he seemed to be putting in more effort than usual to keep them that way. John knew Sherlock well enough to tell that he was excited. And scared. And anxious. And sad. All these things, these emotions so mixed together that he couldn't tell them apart.

Sherlock was right. John didn't know him, but he was most definitely learning, and quickly at that.

* * *

Sherlock took stock of the few remaining steps to the corner's edge. A fluttery nervous feeling pulled at his chest. It was one of which he was unfamiliar with.

 _Anxiety._ Sherlock diagnosed.

 _There are people here._

 _People- people like me._

John looked up at him, nodding encouragement. His eyes read trust. Complete, and total confidence. John trusted Sherlock.

A slight nod in return, then deep breath, and he rounded the corner.

 _And... go._

* * *

John scanned the large, oval table with five figures surrounding it. Three male, two female. The men and younger woman were seated, but the remaining person was standing at the head of the table, next to a easel which had several charts up on it.

John could feel every eye landing on Sherlock and himself. All of them were expressionless. They wore the same mask of indifference that Sherlock did, no emotion showing at all.

The older woman, who seemed to be the leader of the group, was the first to break eye contact as she looked back to her charts.

"We've been expecting you."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry about the wait, but I managed to get myself grounded. I'm glad that's all over now. So... Who's this leading lady? What are those charts of? Review!**


	5. The One Not Used

**A/N: Sorry for the wait guys! I've been ultra busy lately, there's been a wedding, two birthday parties, and a graduation over the course of 2 days! Plus bunches of other stuff in the days before and after. So yeah, I've been trying to get back into the swing of things, but you know how that goes! Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

"Have a seat."

Sherlock slowly took a seat at the large table, John sitting down to his right. They looked at all of the people surrounding it.

The male sitting to Sherlock's left had ash brown hair and a thin, angular face. He was in his early to mid twenties, Sherlock guessed. He had an intelligent gaze and you could feel the ambition and the curiosity leaking from every pore in his body. Sherlock could feel the boy observing him, and to his surprise, he found it slightly uncomfortable.

An older male, approximately in his early fifties sat across from the younger one. He seemed entirely disinterested in them, his attention still on the leader of the group.

Across from John was another man, in his thirties or so. He seemed moderately interested, running his eyes over them several times, but soon turned back to the leader.

The younger female was sitting directly across from Sherlock. She had platinum blond hair and eyes cold as ice. She stared at them with such intense hate that Sherlock knew he had done something to her specifically.

 _Vanessa._ Sherlock's mind supplied, almost instantaneously.

Sherlock looked to the head of the table and examined the older female that was leading the meeting. Her shoulder length silver hair bobbed as she turned to look at them once again.

"So," She said. "James Moriarty did manage to tell you about us before he died."

"Yes." Sherlock said, his voice lowered.

His mind flashed back to when Moriarty closed his eyes for the final time, but he quickly shook the moment from his conscious thought.

"Interesting." The woman walked nearer to Sherlock and John, and they both stood up. "Kathrine Vitalia." She shook Sherlock's hand.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I know." Vitalia said. "And John Hamish Watson, a pleasure."

The look on Sherlock's face was interesting. It was a mixture of interest and great dislike.

"Well, I think it can be assumed that you know little about us, considering you didn't have long with James before his death." Vitalia said, as she made her way back up to the head of the table.

"You would be correct in that assumption." Sherlock said, his gaze traveling down and to the left.

* * *

"Well then." She smiled in a way that made John feel as though she were plotting his and Sherlock's untimely death. "We are the Raven's Ring. We are the scavengers, picking up what is left of this broken world. We are the refiners of the earth, purifying it just as a metal-smith purifies silver."

"You call blowing up a University and killing hundreds of people _purifying_?" John asked.

"Everything gets worse, before it gets better." Vitalia said, as she looked down to the table and straightened a paper lying on it. "We like to consider ourselves as... **_A Healing poison,_** so to say. You of all people would understand that, Mr. Holmes."

"I cannot deny that, Mrs. Vitalia."

"It's Miss." Vitalia corrected. "A man didn't put me here."

"Of course." Sherlock said, looking up at her.

"Back to the point." Vitalia said. "We keep watch on the world, making sure things fold out exactly as they should."

"Like my brother." Sherlock muttered to himself. Vitalia apparently heard him.

"Oh Mr. Holmes, you misunderstand me." She said. "Your brother is bound by the laws of the government, he must act within their rules no matter how many resources he may have, he still needs the approval of others. I should warn you, we don't play by the rules."

"I would never doubt that, Miss Vitalia." Sherlock said.

"So you understand then, that though our methods are occasionally messy, our intentions are pure?"

"Yes."

"Can we count on you then, to stay out of our way?"

"I'm afraid not." Sherlock said. "I'm a firm believer in the idea that too much power in too few hands will soon turn into destruction, and disaster."

"Don't you see that it will be that way always, whether it is our hands or not?" Vitalia asked. "Don't you see that the power is safer in the hands of the genius, than in the hands of the ordinary? We know better what to do with the power that we have, we can better foresee the consequences. We are more likely to take action than anyone below us."

"That's exactly the problem. We _would_ exercise it more. We _would_ use it more." Sherlock said. "The purist power, and I conglomerate every experience, and every bit of knowledge I have ever attained, is the one not used. It has not been exposed and is therefore not contaminated by the greed and bitterness of man."

* * *

 **A/N: By the way, 'Vitalia' is pronounced 'Vi-tahl-ya' just so you know. Anyway, I hope you liked it! If I could get some reviews flowing that would be great, I've been having a bit of writer's block lately on top of all the craziness, and reviews sometimes give me good ideas for what happens next. Who knows, the phrasing of your review could strike a match in my head. You could become my conductor of light. (Ha ha, did you get that quote? You're reading Sherlock fanfiction, of course you did.) ;)**


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